The Darkness I Became
by skyfishmeotjin
Summary: When Mio left the Repentance, the world was two decades younger.
1. Chapter 1

The world wasn't how Mio left it. She couldn't articulate why, but somehow in her gut she knew the surroundings were wrong. The sunrise that set her skin on fire was now nothing more than a lazy light on the horizon, and the busy stream where she used to play stood still, coated in ice. For what felt like hours, sound had assaulted her eardrums: the hard crunch of grass and pebbles underneath her feet, the wind roaring as she threw herself forward, almost as if into the sky itself; and the desperate sobbing that brought her to her knees had then been replaced by an invasive silence. The space itself she occupied felt unnatural, enough so that a feeling took over so powerfully it could have carved into her bones: I'm not supposed to be here.

Leaving the woods was the first step, but the same feeling told Mio she wouldn't like what she'd find outside. Picturing her mother's face, or her uncle's, didn't bring the rush of warmth or relief like it should have, just anxiety. The memories of her home seemed darker, framed in angles that made her uneasy, like those rooms and people were unfamiliar. Another thought rippled through her: there's nothing waiting for me.

Fighting her instincts, Mio walked until she felt the ground grow smoother. The plan was to make her way home and say nothing. Though she hadn't tried, she knew she couldn't speak. Everything was over. All she wanted was to crawl into bed and let everything go dark for a long time. Rest was all she could look forward to, yet something told her she'd have no use for sleep. A faint memory of arms reaching out to hold her, keeping her safe as she dreamed accompanied the worst thought yet: I am completely alone.

Walking had become automatic, the only thing preventing her body from going completely numb, but her eyes were alert and sharp. She'd learned the hard way to trust the shadows in the corners of her vision were malicious, that all that mattered was getting there (wherever that may be) in one piece, but things were different now. There was no clock to race against, nobody to save. Perhaps that's why it made her sick to the stomach. I have no reason to be scared.

The cold gnawed at her exposed skin and made her wounds howl. Mio couldn't remember how most of those bruises and scrapes happened, but she was past letting them bother her. The aches at least were a reminder to keep going, to not fall apart where she stood, though it would be so much easier.

The path was gone. Her foot froze the minute she noticed, hovering over the bare earth where a trail of stones should be. Years of navigating the same twisting route as a child made Mio absolutely sure something was missing, but more than that, it looked like there'd never been one in the first place. There was no sign that anyone came here frequently, or that anyone discovered it at all. Suddenly, she found it hard to breathe. This was all too familiar.

Pushing every memory from her mind, Mio drew a painful breath and broke into a run. When she emerged from the woods, her speed didn't decrease. Reality hit. She was out. It really happened to her. Hysterically, she started to cry, though she swore not to cover her face this time. There was no point in shame any more.

It was then, sobbing and running down a country road, the world faded to black.


	2. Chapter 2

Few things made You Haibara's blood run cold, but the young woman sitting in front of him was one of them. He'd seen evil in the reflection his entire life, but like his father told him, "wicked" suited him better. Mischievous. He had humor and knew how to make things interesting. Not once had he seen someone's stare come from a place so frozen.

As if reading his mind, she turned her gaze to his desk, the movement of his hands as he wrote about treatments, but never him. As someone who depended on eye contact to maintain a façade this was really unnerving, and he sensed she knew that. How frustrating.

To make matters more uncomfortable, he couldn't address her directly. Her psychiatrist suggested all contact with her should be limited to when only absolutely necessary. She won't say, eat or acknowledge much of anything, though how much this is due to her illness was anyone's guess. All his father's staff could really do for her is provide what she asks for, which turned out to be remarkably little, until today.

A nurse brought a torn page of a diary to his attention that morning, a single word scrawled on the paper: me. Apparently the girl handed it to the nurse and nothing else, but it intrigued him enough to confront her. It was the first notable sign of progress after the camera.

That in itself made him feel uneasy. The photos she produced had a gloomy, oppressive atmosphere that just wasn't to his taste. He'd found the old thing in the storage room beneath the stairs and considered throwing it out before deciding the museum was a better place for it. It probably wasn't one of Asou's, but You admired his work, and kept it on the off chance. He'd bumped into her in front of the old man's portrait, tracing an invisible line across his face. He hadn't intended to give her the thing, but her eyes found it in his hands, contaminating it, making his skin crawl. He hadn't seen her without it since.

Glancing up, he noticed she went back to peering into the same empty seat next to her's, as if willing something to be there. You could tell from observing (for as long as he could stand, anyway) she was constantly aware of space; she needed her's and kept precise distances away from particular people and places. More interestingly, though, she maintained space not just for herself but someone else. Yet she was always alone.

"Are you expecting someone?" he managed to ask, masking his curiosity with a bored tone. The responding silence was piercing enough to make him flinch, but he busied himself with the torn page just in time. She wasn't going to get the better of him.

"Can you explain what this means?" was his next question, tone actively curious. Spreading the diary page on the desk between them didn't stir any movement, though he knew she could hear him just fine. Being ignored was starting to test his patience.

_I know the Sendous don't exist_. It was on the tip of his tongue, but questioning her like this was pushing it enough. He'd read almost every written word about her and all of them were a lie. Who was behind it he didn't know, but from personal experience, the truth was more interesting anyway. What everybody knew is that Kageri Sendou is the daughter of a family practically in hiding. Her psychiatrist is the family doctor, and he's been overseeing her treatment for the past year, maintaining a close relationship with her parents - which was false. Meeting the doctor in person proved as much. If there was a benefit from telling lies other than getting what you want, it's that you can spot one a mile off. In this case, it was an entire medical history, back story and family, which is difficult even for a Haibara. Cracks can appear anywhere if you're not careful, especially with so much dependent on another person. Ultimately, this is where it fascinated him: the lie seemed more for her benefit than anyone else's. With that thought, a question left his lips.

"Who are you?"

It was there, in a first floor office of the Haibara clinic, she finally spoke.


	3. Chapter 3

He was certain he existed by now, but where the man walking around with his old name and face might be he hadn't the faintest idea. Truthfully it'd been a while since he thought about it, though it used to eat away at him for years. Sometimes he even forgot there were two of him now.

"Him" and "I" completely lost their meaning after a few years on Rougetsu island, but the words resurfaced every once and awhile as a reminder that he didn't belong there. Apparently a common symptom of the illness but he knew better. To remember or forget was an internal war he'd fought so hard he started taking out his anger on himself. His skin was covered in bruises and small white scars wrapped over his hand like the bandages used to heal them. Another common symptom.

Most days he chose to be alone, away from the noise of the other patients. The children in particular were hard to be around. He used to know why but all that remained was an uncomfortable prickle of nostalgia he couldn't trace. He didn't even remember if he had children, let alone his childhood, and it just made him unbearably sad.

Once he tried to find answers. Certain the time and date were right, he made his way home, his very first one, and froze at the sight of a building that looked like he'd never left it. A child's bike lay by the large gate and it was clear there were people home.

The events afterwards are hazy, but he was informed by the police that he'd been violent. Explaining that the couple, even younger than he was, were his mother and father didn't seem to help matters. He was taken to a hospital, and then another, and eventually to Rougetsu Hall where he sits in silence.

He was much older now than he first was when he stepped back out into the world. The memories of where he came from are dark and blurry, though he often dreamed of an endless ocean of trees and complicated paths stretching under the night sky. The dreams made him feel like he'd been walking for years, decades even, and his throat was always hoarse from shouting something. A little girl's name?

Bruising himself was a way to stop the thoughts from coming back but it was starting to feel more and more pointless. There wasn't much he could do.

Unable to stand sitting still any longer, he pulled himself out of his room and glanced at an old clock on the wall. It seemed to be early morning or late in the afternoon and most of the patients would be waking up or heading to bed. He'd have some time to take in the fresh air outside and stretch his legs.

A harsh wind was trapped inside the atrium, groaning as if desperate to break free, something a lot of the patients could probably resonate with. It was strange an area so enclosed could make him feel free and the thought brought a faint smile to his lips. He had a feeling his thoughts were always strange even if he couldn't remember a time before the illness. Slowly, he made his way to the water's surface.

The figure by the pool had gone unnoticed until he'd decided to stare into it's reflection. A wheelchair the colour of blood held a woman fast asleep, her limp limbs dangling unnaturally. Her unkempt hair shadowed her face as if to hide it but her lips were visibly stretched down in an expression of sadness . The torn fabric clinging to her body was unlike anything he'd seen a patient normally wear, moving in the wind like ink in water. Suddenly he began to feel extremely uneasy. This woman couldn't be real.

Visions came and went but nothing as vivid as this. They were usually limited to voices or sounds he couldn't explain, and when he tried everyone thought he was lying. They thought he was lying about everything but here he was gawking at the woman he could see clear as day. Maybe he could prove it if he touched her?

Every movement towards her made him feel sick as if the air itself was repelling him. Unable to decide if he should really be doing this, his hand froze just above her forearm.

"Excuse me?" he asked with a shaky voice. She remained completely still.

The moment he decided to place his palm upon her skin the atmosphere changed. He realised too late the waves of anxiety weren't coming from the woman in the wheelchair; her skin was impossibly smooth and cold as ice, and he sensed she was completely hollow. _A doll the size of an entire person...?_ It was unnervingly familiar but not as much as the ferocious grasp now on his wrist. Before he had time to react, words cut into his mind as clearly as if they'd been spoken aloud:

_Don't touch me._

Yanking his hand back with a yelp, he stared at the new figure beside him and for a brief second thought he was seeing double: a woman the mirror image of the doll gripped the back of it's shoulders protectively, staring sideways through her hair that danced in the gust of wind around them. Her eyes, unlike the doll, had a faint awareness but almost everything was identical, right down to the faint marks on their skin.

He was certain he hadn't seen either of them before but the woman's touch continued to burn on his skin like an imprint of deja vu. His eyes focused on her bruises, particularly the one marking her neck, and he felt a twinge of empathy.

"I'm sorry if I bothered you. I was just making sure... she was okay" he offered, nodding to the doll as he spoke. The woman's fingers curled on her companion's skin, tightly hooking underneath her clothes as if to further cement the two together.

_She's fine._

The words appeared in his mind again accompanied by a fierce sense of determination, as if she were willing it so. He noticed then the sadness carved into the doll's features were an echo of her's, like an extension of her feelings.

Unaware of just how much he used to know the answer, he hesitantly asked her a question.

"Who are you?"


End file.
